Love … Moment by Moment
Usually, I write a reflection and then have a poem support it in some way, today, I am doing this the other way round. So please go ahead and read the poem first, with the title in mind.
Love in Moments
Love is when I watch you sleep in morning light,
Not the dramatic kind from movies,
But the gentle kind that makes me pause
While getting ready for work.
It’s how you know exactly when to touch my shoulder
Without a word being spoken,
The way you sense my thoughts
Before they fully form.
Love reveals itself in Tuesday evenings,
When you’re reading on the couch,
Hair twisted up messily,
And I bring you tea without asking.
It’s in our quiet rituals—
The way you always save the crossword puzzle
Because you know I’ll want to help,
Even though I’m terrible at it.
Love lives in the spaces between grand gestures,
In half-asleep good morning kisses,
In knowing exactly how you take your coffee,
In the grocery lists we write together.
It’s there when you’re frustrated,
When your day has gone all wrong,
And I just listen, really listen,
Because sometimes that’s all love needs to be.
Love speaks in the language of small things—
The sound of your keys in the door,
The way you fold my shirts differently than I do,
But I’ve grown to prefer your way.
It’s how we’ve learned to move around each other
In our tiny kitchen,
A dance we’ve perfected over years,
Never needing to say “excuse me” anymore.
Love is this—
The accumulated weight of ten thousand moments,
Each one small enough to miss,
But together they’ve become everything.
It’s not the love of poetry and songs,
But something more profound—
The love of shared breaths,
Of knowing glances;
Of being home.
Love… Moment by Moment
There’s something profound about the ordinary moments, don’t you think? We spend so much time waiting for the big gestures, the dramatic declarations, the movie moments that we believe define love. But real love—the sort that sustains us, transforms us, and makes us more than we are alone—lives in the Tuesday evenings on the sofa, and little morning coffee rituals.
Unlike a Hollywood movie, or many romance bestsellers, love is not always an overwhelming hurricane. (Although some of us married types might have started out that way). Mostly, after that initial rush of adrenaline and reptilian chemistry is over, or at least diminished, we learn that love is learned and lived in the accumulation of tiny, barely noticeable acts of attention and care.
Think about it. In the Christian tradition, Jesus spoke of loving one another. He wasn’t necessarily talking about grand dramatic sacrifices, though those had their place. He was talking about the cup of cold water given to the thirsty, the visit to the imprisoned, and the care for the sick. These are Tuesday evening kinds of love: crossword puzzle love, good morning kiss love, and so on.
When we think of just watching someone sleep in the morning light, and I can’t help but think of how this mirrors our contemplative prayer practice. There’s something sacred about watching, about paying attention without an agenda. When we sit in silent prayer, aren’t we doing something similar? Watching the breath of our soul, paying attention to the gentle movements of grace without needing to fix or change anything? This attentiveness to a child, a friend or a lover sleeping can be this small moment of love.
The Spiritual Trace of Small Love
Every small act of love leaves what we might call a spiritual trace—that lingering essence that changes the atmosphere of a relationship. The way someone saves the crossword puzzle for you, knowing you’ll want to help even though you’re terrible at it. That’s love creating space for another person to exist fully, imperfections and all. Isn’t this exactly what God does for us?
The kitchen dance described in the poem—that wordless choreography perfected over years—reminds me of many mystical traditions describing union with the divine. After years of practice, of showing up day after day, we learn to move in harmony with God’s presence. We no longer bump into each other, no longer need to say “excuse me” for taking up space.
Love as Spiritual Practice
Moment-by-moment love is how love, long-term love, becomes a spiritual practice. The person in the poem has learned to see—to notice when their beloved is frustrated, to listen without trying to fix, to know exactly how the other takes their coffee. This kind of attention is a form of prayer.
In the Franciscan tradition, we speak of finding God in all things. But perhaps we need to be more specific: finding God in the accumulated weight of ten thousand small moments, moments of love. Each one is small enough to miss, but together they become everything. Isn’t this how grace works in our lives? Not usually in dramatic conversions, but in the slow accumulation of moments when we choose love over indifference, presence over distraction, tenderness over harshness.
When we talk of “shared breaths,” “knowing glances,” and “being home,” we are talking the language of mystical union, whether human love or divine love. It’s about becoming so attuned to another that you sense their thoughts before they fully form, that you know when to touch their shoulder without a word being spoken.
Beyond Romantic Love
While the poem describes romantic love, moment-by-moment devotion applies to all our relationships. Think about friendship sustained not by grand gestures but by remembering what matters to someone. Parental love that shows up in packed lunches and bedtime stories more than in dramatic rescues. The love between siblings lives inside jokes and shared memories of growing up together.
Even our relationship with God follows this pattern. It’s built less in mountaintop experiences and more in the daily choice to pause, to listen, to remain present when everything in us wants to rush ahead. It’s morning prayer and evening gratitude. It’s the gentle repetition of the sacred word in actions and prayer—not dramatic, but transformative over time.
The Sacred Ordinary
Love sanctifies the ordinary. The grocery lists become prayer lists. The morning light becomes revelation. The way someone folds your shirts differently than you do becomes a lesson in letting go of control and allowing others to love us in their own way.
This is the love that sustains marriages, friendships, families, and communities. This is the love that makes us instruments of peace in the world. Not because we perform great acts of heroism, but because we show up, moment by moment, with attention and care.
Perhaps this is what it means to love our neighbor as ourselves—to pay the same gentle attention to their needs, their rhythms, their ways of being in the world that we see in this poem. To become people who notice, who listen, who create space for others to exist fully and imperfectly.
The poem ends by acknowledging that this love of small moments is “something more profound” than the love of poetry and songs. It’s a love of “being home.” And isn’t that what we’re all seeking? Not just to be loved for our best moments but to be loved in our ordinary Tuesday evening selve s, crossword puzzle failures and all.
This is the love that changes the world—one small moment, one gentle attention, one saved crossword puzzle at a time.
Poem, Image and Reflection Copyright Michael J. Cunningham OFS